Troy 03 - Fall of Kings by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page B

was focused on the galley. “Pushing the oarsmen too hard,” he said. “All they’ll get is sprained shoulders and shattered confidence.”
    He looked at Gershom and forced a smile. “Time for you to get ashore. The many delights of Troy are waiting, and you do not want to be standing here discussing the training of sailors. Do not concern yourself about me. I shall not slash open my throat, I promise you.”
    “I know that,” Gershom replied. “I will see you tomorrow.” With that he swung away. Oniacus called out to him, and Gershom turned.
    “Thank you, my friend,” Oniacus said.
    Gershom walked to the aft deck, gathered his cloak, and swung it to his shoulders. Then he climbed over the deck rail and lowered himself to the sand.
    Strolling across the beach, he climbed the path to the lower town. At the wide wooden bridge spanning the fortification ditch he saw two sentries in armor of burnished bronze, long spears in their hands. Across the bridge a crowd had gathered around some of the sailors from the
Xanthos.
One of the sentries smiled at Gershom. He was a young man, but his face and arms bore the scars of combat.
    “News of your victories reached us two days ago,” the sentry said. “It was as welcome as sunshine after snow.” People clustered around the crew, patting them on the back and calling out praises and blessings.
    Gershom eased himself around the edge of the crowd. A man suddenly clapped his hand on Gershom’s shoulder. “Here is another one of them!” he shouted happily.
    As more men turned toward Gershom, he shook his head. “No, no,” he told them, raising his hands. “I am merely a traveler.”
    Losing interest immediately, they turned their attention once more to the other sailors. Gershom pushed on. A dark-haired girl stepped from the shadows into the moonlight and linked her arm in his. Gershom glanced down into her face. She was pretty, her eyes pale, either blue or gray. It was too dark to tell. He could see that the girl was young though. Her white ankle-length tunic was close-fitting, her small breasts barely stretching the fabric.
    Taking her hand, he lifted it from his arm. “I am in no mood for sport,” he told her gruffly. “And if I was, it would be with a woman, not a child.”
    The girl laughed. “If you
were
in the mood, you could not afford me—not even as a prince of Egypte.”
    Gershom paused then, his eyes raking her slim form, seeking any sign of a hidden weapon. His identity had been kept secret, or so he had thought. If this young whore knew of him, how many more had heard? Men who would seek the reward still on his head. He glanced around nervously, half expecting to see Egypteian assassins dart from the shadows.
    “Do I frighten you?” the girl asked him.
    “Go and find someone else to annoy,” he told her, walking on. The girl ran after him. Gershom felt his irritation rise.
    “I saw you in the sea,” she said. “Great waves crashing over you. You were very strong.”
    Gershom paused again, his curiosity aroused. “All right, you know who I am. Who sent you, child, and for what purpose?”
    “Xidoros sent me.” Suddenly her head cocked. “Yes, yes,” she said, talking to the darkness, “but that is just pedantic.” She frowned and seemed to be listening. Then she threw up her arm. “Oh, go away!” she hissed.
    Turning back to Gershom, she said: “He says he didn’t send me, that he merely said we should speak.”
    Gershom swore softly. Back in Thebes there was a house with high walls where the moon-touched were kept for four years. In that time diviners and healers, astrologers and magicians, would be called on to heal them or drive out the demons that had robbed them of sanity. Surgeons would drill holes into their skulls; healers would feed them strange herbs and potions. If at the end of four years they still were not cured, it was taken as a sign that the gods were calling for them. They then were strangled. Gershom had heard of no